


How to get more out of neglected rooms and spaces

by eyeslikerain



Series: A certain carnal element [2]
Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: AU ten years after Hampden, Country House, Established Relationship, Henry lives and has children, M/M, creative use of rooms and tools, sex in summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: Francis hopped onto the kitchen island. With dangling feet he said:„It‘s easy. Just don‘t forget the olive oil on top of it. In fact, it‘s vital to be always generous with olive oil. In every situation.“





	How to get more out of neglected rooms and spaces

The last weeks of summer term had been overflowing with finals, grading papers until late at night and last – minute appointments with worried students. Sometimes, I couldn‘t help the feeling that I lived in my office instead of spending my time with Francis in the country house, which had become our sanctuary, or our New York apartment. Dividing my time between Columbia and Hampden (I taught just one day there, usually making it Thursday, so I could return to our country home afterwards) had become more and more trying also. I wondered if I‘d be able to keep up this pace for decades. But I still felt too young to sort of retire or reject great offers. I was ambitious and determined to make a name.  
The flipside of the coin was that I seemed to have missed spring completely this year. Nature had lept into summer without me noticing it. Until I slowly drove home from Hampden, one evening in early June. The weather was perfect: warm, but not too hot. The sweet smell of freshly cut hay lingered over the meadows. Roses hung over the fences of the few gardens I passed on country lanes. Handpainted signs advertising fresh strawberries made me realize that summer really was here. I felt a long missed inner peace. Even if I was eager to see Francis after three days apart, I didn‘t speed. I drove leisurely, enjoying the serene view and the summer scents. Deliberatley immersing myself into the sweet summer evening helped me to wind down from everything that had occupied my mind so urgently in the last weeks.  
Regardless of how many times I already had passed our property entrance, I felt the familiar tuck in my stomach when turning into the winding lane. The tall trees shading the road were dark green and lush. One more curve, and the highest of the many crazy little turrets of Francis‘s mansion peaked above the branches. The widow‘s walk with it‘s wrought-iron fence gleamed in the evening light, and the low sun was reflected in one of the stained-glass windows. Roses and jasmine abounded here also, and I sighed inwardly when I turned off the ignition. Singing birds and the constant, low hum of the thousands of frogs in the lake welcomed me. A tractor purred in the distance, but otherwise: silence. I was home.

The house drowsed in the late afternoon heat. Everything seemed so quiet that I wondered if Francis was at home at all. But I had seen his car, and he had told me only this morning that he‘d need all day to translate the new auction catalogue from Sotheby‘s. I expected to find him in his study upstairs, but called out anyway when I closed the ornate old entrance behind me. I heard a muffled moan from the nearby library and a slight squeaking which I recognized as a familiar noise from the vintage davenport under the window. Sure enough – Francis was sprawled on it, limp and drowsy, and moaned once more when I entered the room.  
„What‘s up, you‘re sick?“  
He shook his head, closed his eyes again and complained softly:  
„Heat is killing me.“  
„Aw. Poor baby.“  
I sat down next to his angular, pale figure and kissed his cool forehead. He sighed once more. His unusual attire – blue boxer shorts and a plain white tee – told me he must have taken a nap. I gently let my hand wander over his marble white legs. They were cool, much cooler than mine, as was the vast, high ceilinged old room. I grinned inwardly about his dramatic exaggeration of the climatic conditions, but it was always good to take his worries serious, so I asked:  
„Did you sleep?“  
He nodded and took my hand: „Much longer than I planned. I‘m hot now.“  
„I‘ll get you a drink of water, all right?“  
He nodded, unable to open his eyes. Cute dramatic baby. I tousled his hair until he grunted:  
„Don‘t touch me. I‘m suffering.“

When I returned with two tall glasses, he managed to slide up at the back of the sofa. He still hung limply on it, his long legs sprawled all over the place, but made room for me. Gratefully, he took the glass from me and muttered after the first few sips:  
„Sorry, this heat is disgusting. But I‘m glad you‘re back. Dearest.“  
He shot me a glance and pouted before leaning in to kiss me. I tickled his neck while holding him and whispered in his ear: „But – the roses are in bloom. There are strawberries everywhere. The frogs outside sing their loveliest songs for you...“  
He snorted: „Can‘t you kill those damn frogs? Keeping me up all night and spoiling even my nap!“  
I hugged him, graced his still bony back: „The frogs love your lake. Just leave them alone. See the lyrical potential of...“  
He pushed me away, saw the twinkle in my eyes and joined my smile.  
„All right, all right. The may live. Just this summer.“ He slid into an even more upright position and asked:  
„How was your day?“  
„Hot. Too full. You remember the king of procrastination?“ He nodded, knowing my notorious student all too well. „He came today. Today! Miserable and close to tears. But awfully charming, as ever.“  
„What did you do?“  
„Almost lost my patience. Didn‘t give in but told him he had until midnight today. That‘s it. The whole faculty will open a bottle of champagne if he passes!“  
Francis chuckled:  
„I almost was this student, wasn‘t I?“  
I smiled: „Yes, but you weren‘t on a scholarship and didn‘t need your diploma.“  
„But look at me now!“, he beamed. He was right – he was successful in his free-lance work and highly in demand. But not due to what he had earned himself in laborious hours in college. Having spent his teenage years in expensive French schools gave him an advantage. He was practically bilingual. The rest of his knowledge about antique furniture was completely self – made. With lots of time and earnest study, but without tedious deadlines or professors demanding papers on a certain date. In the usual relaxed, a bit lazy Francis-like way. But it had worked splendidly for him, and he certainly had a better foundation than my obnoxious student would ever get.  
„You look like a spoiled, bratty young prince. Just as always“, I teased him before he dug his nails into my back and tried to bite me. We mock-wrestled a bit until I swept his moist curls from his forehead:  
„Awake now?“  
„Yes. I hate you.“  
„I love you.“ He grinned and gave me a long, warm kiss, nibbling on my lips and stroking my arm.  
„How about dinner?“, he asked. „Did you have lunch?“  
„Yes. Lasagna in college.“  
He raised an eyebrow.  
„Your‘s is better.“  
„That‘s the right answer!“, he smirked. „How about we just have watermelon with greek cheese? It‘s too hot to cook.“  
„Watermelon with cheese? Sounds – interesting?“, I added doubtfully.  
„It‘s really good! I had it yesterday. Trial session. Could eat it all summer long.“

„Well then.“ I finished my water, got up and offered my hand to Francis, who let himself be dragged off the sofa with a sigh. The curtains billowed in a slight breeze while he patted behind me into the kitchen. Here, it was pleasantly cool also. The windows and french doors were open and allowed aromatic summer scents into the grand old-fashioned kitchen. Francis sighed while he filled his glass again. I hugged him from behind and asked into his curls:  
„Still drowsy?“  
He nodded and patted my hand.  
„Just have a seat and tell me what to do then.“  
While I turned to get the melon and cheese out of the fridge, Francis hopped onto the kitchen island. With dangling feet he said:  
„It‘s easy. Just don‘t forget the olive oil on top of it. In fact, it‘s vital to be always generous with olive oil. In every situation.“  
Searching for a cutting board, I wondered why he lingered on the olive oil so explicitly and half expected a charming little lecture about the merits of extra-virgin oil when his hand stopped me:  
„Lately, you didn‘t care much about olive oil.“ His tone was strangely plaintive. Did I do anything wrong? Destroyed a favourite pan without noticing? I turned to him:  
„What are you talking about, honey? You know I was busy...“  
He interrupted me, leaning back on his hands in a mock pin-up pose and dangling his naked feet even more:  
„There were times when you knew very well how to use olive oil in the kitchen.“ He pursed his lips invitingly. They seemed velvety and deep pink suddenly, and his eyes had a certain glazed-over quality I knew too well. I abandoned my search for knive and cutting board and slowly stroked his naked thigh:  
„I see. Barely awake but horny already?“ I stood between his legs and graced his arms. Did he blush?  
„A bit, maybe“, he mumbled with downcast eyes. It cut my heart to see him obviously ashamed to articulate his needs. True, we hadn‘t spend too much time together in the last weeks, and I had rarely been in the mood for more than a good-night-kiss. Francis seemed to have missed sex much more than I did. I decided to make up for it, here and now. Leaning in to kiss the side of his neck, I whispered:  
„Do you remember when we rarely had sex in a bed, but all over the house?“  
„Of course“, he sighed and drew me closer. He slipped forward to sit on the edge of the counter and put one leg around my thighs. I hugged him tightly and slid one hand under his shirt. Did he shudder already?  
„You know, I always liked it in the kitchen when summer is so sensual upon us. When everything is ripe, more than ripe, and juicy and moist...“ He nodded and offered his parted lips. We kissed wetly and unabashedly. I felt his fingers at my belt and licked into him even more. When he opened my trousers and pushed them down, I abandoned his lips in order to slip out of my shoes and start undressing hastily. He quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head and shook his curls. I stopped to sprinkle some kisses on his nipples and chest. He threw his head backwards and moaned, but giggled when he almost slipped off the counter. I caught him in my arms, helped him to slip onto the floor and took his boxer shorts off in a swift movement. He tore frantically at the buttons of my shirt, his erection gracing my legs. When I was finally naked also, I asked: „Here?“ and, when he consented, lifted him onto the kitchen island again. „Need you now!“, he moaned while I couldn‘t take my eyes of his ethereal, pale body. I leaned in to kiss and lick his cock. He reclined, lifted his legs and started to search with is hand over his head for the oil bottle.  
„What‘s all this stuff here?“, he complained, fingering at something under his back.  
„Brought the mail in“, I uttered, not giving a fig about anything other than Francis‘s body. „Come here“. I pulled him slowly closer to me while he pushed the oil in my direction with clumsy fingers. He arranged himself more firmly on the counter and drew his knees up even more: „Please...“ He moaned with closed eyes. „Hurry. Can‘t wait any longer.“  
And he was ready and deliciously open for me when I entered him seconds later. We moaned in unison. It felt so good to unite like that again. When I was fully inside him, we stopped and enjoyed being joined like that, breathing hard and looking into each other‘s misted over eyes. I tried to kiss him without moving, wanting to enjoy the sensation of warmth and tightness around me a little longer, but he started to undulate his hips and clawed into my back. His eagerness drove me crazy and we soon settled into a vigorous pace. I didn‘t care about grades, papers, dinner – this was the only thing that mattered. I felt elated and liberated and almost forgot everything around me when Francis gasped suddenly:  
„I‘m falling! Slipping off here!“  
Sure enough, his sweaty back sashayed on the counter. My hands were sweaty also and I couldn‘t steady him, so I slid out, hauled him off the table and, once on the floor, turned him around and entered him again in one swift motion. He cried out in pleasure while trying to steady himself by gripping the slippery edge of the counter:  
„Yes yes yes! That‘s even better...“ His last words were muffled because he buried his face into his palms and leaned forward to allow me even better acces. I gripped his moist, oily hips and allowed myself some heavy, deep thrusts which seemed to drive him near the edge. When his voice changed into a stuttering whine, I groped around him, searched for his hot, full cock and gave him barely a few pumps before he collapsed in shudders and came into my hand. I followed immediately, turned on by his spasmic clenching and the new tightness around my sensitive parts.  
Still inside him, we collapsed onto the counter, face forward. I relaxed onto his sweaty, shiny back, easing his stomach onto the kitchen island. It wasn‘t exactly comfortable, but I needed to hold him, listen to his ragged breath, see the freckles on his back. We stayed like this until I felt my cock slide out of him. I kissed his back and stayed close anyway. We re-arranged ourselves a bit. I lifted my chin onto Francis‘s shoulder and took in the view: a chipped enamel colander with strawberries. A pot of fragrant rosemary. The still open oil bottle. Moist patches on the table, be it sweat or oil. Or something else. Francis‘s damp hair and pale shoulders right in front of my eyes.  
He straightened up a bit under me and stretched to get the crumpled stack of mail I had tossed here earlier. I read over his shoulder:  
„A parking ticket“, he said accusingly. I chuckled. „Something for you“ - holding up a letter with the head of Columbia - „something for me“ - Gieves and Hawkes, his London tailor, with a possibly outrageous invoice, and an invitation to a Fine Arts and Furnitures auction. „Oh, look here, Camilla wrote!“ He held up an ivory envelope with Camilla‘s familiar handwriting on it. Francis leaned forward to grope for the scissors. I stayed where I was and stroked his soft butt. He wriggled and pushed it back against me. „Stay like that. Read it to me. I love your -“ - he beamed at me encouragingly over his shoulder - „I love your back. Your shoulder blades. Your neck.“ He sighed and turned and I rocked slowly and sated into him. He responded to my movements and, having opened the letter and holding up a card with Monet‘s waterlilies for me to see, skimmed and repeated excerpts of Camilla‘s letter while I kissed his spine:  
„She asks how our water lilies are doing. Blasted lilies. Under each one lurks a frog.“ I bit him, reminding him to leave the frogs alone. „Excuses for having been out of touch so long. Much to do at school. Diana had her first piano recital!“ Turning the card, he continued: “Henry‘s in Italy already for research. She and the girls follow in three weeks, then stay all summer. Wow, I‘d die in Italy in summer! Thank you!“  
He tossed the card on the messy table and turned around in my arms. We both glistened with sweat and oil. He smiled, embracing me:  
„That was wonderful. Almost had forgotten how good it feels.“  
I nodded into his shoulder and hugged him closer. Our feet touched and he delicately put one foot onto mine and kissed my shoulder:  
„Let‘s have sex outside of beds as often as possible again. Like – you remember?“  
I nodded: „Yes. And yes.“  
We rested our foreheads together, silent for the moment. My gaze fell on Camilla‘s letter. I still remembered the strange, crazy November night at Henry‘s and Camilla‘s. In fact, I had been pondering the frivolous idea of an uninhibited sex party far too often.  
„What would Camilla say if she saw us like that?“, I asked.  
Francis laughed softly: „Oh! Guess she wouldn‘t mind having a closer look at you.“ He smirked at me with raised eyebrows.  
„Why me?“, I replied.  
„Mmmh… I‘ve a feeling she wouldn‘t mind… You know.“  
I kissed his lips: „Did you ever think about their offer?“  
He looked amused, shrugged his shoulders slightly and replied:  
„Why, yes. And you?“  
I nodded. We were silent for a beat or two, watching each other carefully.  
„You seemed rather revolted, back then“, he remarked askingly.  
„I know. I was. But lately… I don‘t know, this idea is somewhat exciting. Sick, but exciting. Isn‘t it?“  
„Of course it is. I‘m still not sure it‘s a good idea to try this with friends, but...“ His voice trailed off. „Sometimes, I imagine how you would look like if someone else – well, fucked you.“  
„Camilla?“  
„No. A man. Just – any man. I mean of course he‘d have to be beautiful, and kind, and hot and so on, but, basically...“ He raised one shoulder and looked at me rather insecure. I swallowed. „Sorry if I...“ I held him and stroked his cooling back:  
„No, it‘s all right. You can phantasize about whatever turns you on.“ I searched his green eyes with mine: „In fact – well, that sounds exciting.“ He played with my fingers, gaining a bit of confidence by my reaction. „But maybe we could, like, talk about this first? Imagine it next time we have sex? You tell me what you‘d like to watch while you“ - I hesitated - „top me?“  
His eyebrows shot upwards. Two, three seconds passed, until he whispered with sparkling eyes:  
„When can we start?“


End file.
